


tears and other fractures

by call_me_steve



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman Incorporated (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Child Death, Damian Wayne Angst, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, This is not Happy, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, again this is NOT HAPPY, at all, bc it literally happened in canon sdlkagjh, literally how the hell do i tag, no beta we die like dames did, was gonna do "is so done" bc that wouldve been funny huh, yknow in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28415694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/call_me_steve/pseuds/call_me_steve
Summary: Damian dies to Heretic and everyone falls apart.-Or, a series of reactions to Damian's death.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 141





	tears and other fractures

**Author's Note:**

> HEED THE TAGS IK THERE'S NOT MANY BUT IT HAPPENS MAN
> 
> WARNINGS: damian literally dies. okay. like. /yeah/.

There is one single note that tears through the overwhelming, ever present silence. _One_ note; one that Damian recognizes better than he recognizes himself. No longer rare; full of a newly common, _rich_ sense of love; drowning in _devotion-_

Damian screams louder than this note. He screams longer and stronger and _louder_ than this note; his voice rises and carries and _burns._ His fingers rise and claw at his chest, nails trying to rip away at the skin beneath it. There’s something blooming and _breaking_ inside of his hollow bones. There is something bursting and _breathing_ inside of these empty ribs. He wants it out, whatever it is; he wants to rip himself open and grasp at this horrible thing to tear it straight out of him. 

He doubles over; his lungs are constricting and he can no longer _b r e a t h e._ There is air beneath his feet. There is metal beneath his palms. There is something _inside_ of him; no, _no,_ there is something _pulling_ through his body and piercing through the other end. It _yanks_ apart the skin on Damian’s back, dragging along organs and upsetting the fragile equilibrium inside of his body. 

Something spills down his cheeks; his chin; his _skin._ It is hot, hot, _hot,_ and he _screams; sobs; p l e a d s._ There is a name sitting on his lips. There is a name _slipping_ from them, but he has no air in his lungs and no power in his throat. Whatever he was going to say dies as quickly as he does. 

His body shuts down and Damian is no more.

He is no more. 

He is _n o m o r e._

* * *

There is one single note that tears through the overwhelming, ever present silence. It _tears_ through the air and plummets faster than his parents had, that fateful night that turned him upside down. Dick pushes himself to his feet and locks his knees, unsure that he can make a step forward without crumpling. His heart is pounding, _screaming_ in his chest; his lungs are _begging_ him to stay down and to breathe, in and out and in and _o u t._

His eyes remain locked on the glimmering sword raised in the air, a little boy hanging on it like some sort of sick ornament. Blood coats the silver of the blade, the yellow of the cape, the gold of the R. Blood coats Dick’s vision, his costume, his _mind._

He sees red. It is _all_ he sees, even as Damian’s name falls off his tongue and curdles in the air; even as his body _pleads_ with him to just give _up;_ Dick cannot give up, there is too much to do, so much to _do-_ He has to get Heretic away from his baby brother; he has to close the wound and staunch the bleeding; he has to, he has to, he _has to._ He _has_ to, but all he can do is crumple to his knees as Damian slides _off_ of that damned blade and onto the ground, curled up on his side and _so, so still._

Dick might be crying. He _thinks_ he’s crying, at least- something rolls down his cheeks, but it might as well be blood from when he’d been thrown into the glass case. He can’t even raise his hands to wipe away at it; something hollow is expanding in his gut and swallowing his thoughts whole. There is only this horrible white, numb _static_ that is claiming his limbs and his thoughts and his heart. 

He understands, suddenly, that his little brother- his baby boy- is no more. 

He is no more. 

He is _n o m o r e._

* * *

There is one single note that tears through the overwhelming, ever present silence. Bruce is running; he is _running_ and his feet are slapping against the stone and the marble and the concrete; he is praying to every God he’s ever met; he is _praying and begging and hoping._ Time becomes void- no longer does it carry any meaning other than an ever present one that tells him to _hurry, go faster, Bruce, you are going to lose him, he is going to die, B r u c e._

He can’t lose another son to a monster. He _can’t;_ he _won’t,_ because he _knows_ that he can prevent this. He just has to be a little faster. A little better. A little _stronger._ He pushes himself to his limits, as much as he can bear, and he _tears_ through the building. 

Talia won’t take this from him. Not now that he’s finally found himself on stable footing with Damian. 

As he rounds into the main lobby, he nearly topples over; debris covers every surface and there’s far too much for any _normal_ person to take in. Tim fights assassins in the corner, clutching a box to his chest and standing on top of a tank. Dick’s sharp blues peek through a column of rock and stone. Someone- a _tall_ someone, with sharp ears sticking out of their head and torn clothes encasing their armoured body- stands above it all, sword in hand. 

Bruce sees the someone. Bruce sees the sword. Then he sees the puddle of red and yellow and green and he _roars._

Time becomes void, again, but this time it is because he is too busy _tearing Heretic apart._ He does everything he can think of despite the aching in his body and the cry of his bones. He punches and kicks and _throws_ and _yells._ He is a monster, he is _the_ monster; Bruce is the dark thing that lurks in the night and he knows one truth above everything else and he is _b r e a k i n g._

His son, the one he’s only just gotten to know, is no more. 

He is no more. 

He is _n o m o r e._

* * *

There is one single note that tears through the overwhelming, ever present silence. Tim doesn’t, actually, hear it. He’s too busy to really notice it; he’s trying to save Ellie and the stupid Oroboro device that Talia apparently wants. No one’s helping him and he’s _salty_ about it, okay? He’s tired and the world is too big and he is too small. He has a fucking _staff_ and a, well, tank; he is one against a hundred and life wants him dead. 

Okay, whatever. He can deal with it. He’s had worse odds before. 

So he does. Tim deals with it until everyone shouts at him and there’s an opening. Then, he grabs Ellie’s arm and he presses the box as close as he can. Together, they get the hell out of dodge. 

His soles make no noise as they hit the ground. Before he knows it, he’s outside and he’s gulping in the fresh air as if he’ll never have it again. But- _but-_ he did it. He _did_ it. He has the fucking box and he’s still alive and breathing and _he did it._

Ellie drops to her knees and gasps, slowly drawing in breath after breath. Tim thinks he wants to follow for all of a minute, just to prove he can because he’s _alive,_ and then- And then he sees the bundle in Dick’s arms. The _yellow_ bundle; green combat boots peek out from the midst of black and yellow and red.

Something tears at Tim’s chest; something dislodges from its rightful place and suddenly his entire body feels wrong. He no longer wants to be here. He does not want to cheer and to breath and to feel the heart pounding in his chest because there is no longer a point; this is not a victory, this is a song that is sad and broken and shattered. This is a book that ends with demise and pain and _heartache_ and Tim realizes this so suddenly that he wants to dig his fingers into his arms and tear himself apart because _that is his little brother in Dick’s arms and he is so still, why is he so still, Bruce?_

He thinks he asks what happened, but he isn’t sure, because his little brother, (his _only_ little brother, his _first_ little brother), is no more. 

He is no more. 

He is _n o m o r e._

* * *

There is one single note that tears through the overwhelming, ever present silence. 

It is not a real word. It is not a real _sound._ Or, maybe- maybe it is. It is a sound that none of us can hear unless we are lost and afraid and quite possibly alone. It is a sound you have heard once before in your life; it is a sound we all cling to in the dead of the night when we don’t know where to go and who to be. 

It is life and it is death. 

Some nights; some _things;_ they’re all-encompassing. 

This is, too.

**Author's Note:**

> me: aw man i miss writing dames  
> me:   
> me, a few hours later: what did i just do


End file.
